


If You've Got the Notion

by janene



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abortion, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janene/pseuds/janene
Summary: Sid isn’t fucking stupid, is the thing. He knows his body. The nausea comes and goes on a pretty regular schedule. Sid’s constantly fucking tired, he’s had a low-grade headache for the last week, and he hasn’t taken a shit in days. He’s late – really late – and he’s usually regular as a fucking metronome. He has an app and everything. He knows the risks of getting fucked without a condom.He orders nine pregnancy tests online. Three different brands, just to be on the safe side.





	If You've Got the Notion

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Sevenfists for the beta - you're a gem!
> 
> Written for the prompt: _A drunken hookup with Geno results in Sid getting pregnant. He doesn't keep the baby._

It starts with Sid throwing up what feels like his entire GI tract after a morning skate.

“Well fuck,” says a voice over Sid’s shoulder.

Sid doesn’t lift his head from the toilet seat. It’s kind of gross. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Talk to Vyas or Melissa,” the voice – Chris, maybe – says. “The flu going around this year is fucking nasty – you’ll want to head it off at the pass.”

Sid sighs. “Yeah.”

He flushes the toilet.

\--

Sid doesn’t go to Vyas or Melissa. It’s not the flu, and it’s not going to go away.

Sid isn’t fucking stupid, is the thing. He knows his body. The nausea comes and goes on a pretty regular schedule. Sid’s constantly fucking tired, he’s had a low-grade headache for the last week, and he hasn’t taken a shit in days. He’s late – really late – and he’s usually regular as a fucking metronome. He has an app and everything. He knows the risks of getting fucked without a condom.

He orders nine pregnancy tests online. Three different brands, just to be on the safe side.

When he has them lined up on his counter two days later, he realizes he made a slight miscalculation. He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to produce enough pee for all of them. He tries to stay hydrated, but this is pushing it.

With some careful maneuvering and elite hand-eye coordination, Sid is able to get three tests started in one go.

He takes a lap around his living room while they percolate. He looks at the stupid fucking ship wheel that his interior decorator hung on his wall – maybe it’s time to give her a call. His phone alarm goes off. Sid fortifies himself and heads back to the bathroom.

He approaches his counter. He had neatly lined up the three tests next to the sink: one showing two pink lines, one showing a large blue plus sign, and one reading “pregnant.” Sid appreciates the directness.

He takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, buries his face in his hands. _Shit_.

\--

The next day, Sid is in the locker room after practice. He’s been kind of out of it all day, but it’s easy enough to focus during the video review and skate. No one can accuse Sid of not being dedicated.

He looks over at Geno’s stall as he’s unlacing his skates. He manages to catch Geno looking at him for about a millisecond before Geno’s gaze skitters away. Sid rolls his eyes and continues taking off his gear. _So, no change then_.

After he’s done stripping down to his base layers, Sid steels himself and walks over to where Geno’s fucking around with Horny. “Hey, Recchi wanted me to tell you there’s a video meeting for the power play tomorrow before practice. So, uh, get here at like ten.”

Geno looks at him blankly for a moment, says “Da,” pauses again. He glances around the room. “Anything else?”

“Uh, no.” Sid shifts his weight. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, suddenly.

“Okay, thanks,” Geno says, before turning back to Horny.

Sid sighs. Horny looks at him while Geno is unraveling the tape from his socks, eyebrows quirked. Sid shrugs, and turns around to leave for the exercise bikes for a cool-down.

He has his head down, pedaling furiously when Tanger comes over.

“Dude, what the fuck was that?” Tanger asks.

Sid glances at him, then focuses his attention back in front of him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tanger rolls his eyes. “Bullshit,” he says.

Sid keeps pedaling. “Just — let it go.” He doesn’t even want to think about it, much less talk to Tanger about it.

Tanger looks at him. “Sure, Sid.”

Sid doesn’t watch him leave. Honestly, Sid doesn’t know what he would say to Tanger even if he did want to get into it — that he fucked up? That Geno can’t even look at him directly now?

Sid shakes the thought out of his head, pedals faster.

Sid can handle the cold shoulder. He’s used to people not liking him, that’s not new. He isn’t used to Geno not liking him. Sid — doesn’t know how to deal with that.

\--

The thing is, Sid fucking hates losing. Their October has been less than stellar. Sid’s been in the league long enough to know that a rough few games in October is hardly a death knell for the season, but that doesn’t really make him feel better.

They get home after a shitty 7-1 loss to the Lightning on a Saturday night and one of the young guys suggests going to the bar. Sid, against his better judgement, doesn’t say no. What the hell, he figures, there’s two days until the next game.

It turns out, the only alcohol you can reliably drink while on a gluten-free diet is cider, wine, rum, vodka, and tequila. Sid fucking hates cider, and he doubts the bar the rookies chose has a great wine selection. The less said about the rest of the evening, the better, as far as Sid’s concerned.

\--

He goes to Melissa.

“I’m pregnant,” he tells her.

Her eyebrows raise a fraction. It’s the largest crack he’s ever seen in her usually unwavering professional facade.

“Well,” she says, and gives him a referral to a local clinic.

\--

The doctor at the clinic is a no-nonsense older woman named Mary with a white buzz cut and bright green Crocs. Sid likes her immediately.

“When was the first day of your last period?”

“Uh,” Sid says, and fumbles with his phone. “October 8th?”

“Any allergies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“When was the last time you had receptive penetrative sex?”

Sid doesn’t need to look at his calendar. “October 21st.”

“How many sexual partners have you had in the last year?”

Sid swallows. “Just the one.”

“All right,” Mary says. “Let’s get a urine sample, and I can run an STD panel. I need to draw some blood for a pregnancy test, and we can get this show on the road.”

Sid appreciates the efficiency. “Sounds good.”

\--

Turns out, in the state of Pennsylvania, abortions come in two steps.

The first step is a counseling appointment where, as far as Sid can tell, nurses come in to look at him disappointedly and tell him about how his fetus is the size of a grape and has teeth or some shit, which mostly just serves to freak him out. Afterwards, he gets an ultrasound, gets prescribed some medication to make things easier for the big show, and gets a birth control lecture. He has to wait another twenty-four hours, and then he can move on with his life.

“All right,” Mary says. “Make sure to bring someone with you at the appointment, you might not want to drive home afterwards. You can schedule your follow-up when you check out.”

 _Okay_ , Sid thinks. _This is doable._

\--

He’s been avoiding Geno. Talking to him, texting him, looking at him. Thinking about him. It seems only fair, though – Geno started it. If Geno didn’t want to acknowledge him, fine – Sid wasn’t going to make him. It just – it sucked.

Sid knew fucking him would be a mistake. It’s why he held off on doing it for eleven years. Not after the first Cup win (or the second, or the third), not after all the early playoff exits. Sid didn’t get where he is by just allowing himself to do whatever he wanted. For better or worse, he has an iron fucking will.

But – at the bar, and at Sid’s place after, it seemed like Geno wanted him back. Sid feels silly about it now, but in Sid’s vodka-induced haze, it seemed like a great idea. He remembers the night in snatches, but they were warm, happy snatches. Good memories, in a less-than-ideal situation. He remembers Geno talking at him in Russian, sotto voce. It sounded sweet. He remembers falling asleep with his arm thrown over Geno’s soft waist, drooling open-mouthed at the nape of his neck.

He remembers waking up alone in a cold bed, no text, no note. No eye contact from Geno at practice, no Snapchats of dogs Geno had seen on the street that day.

Sid might not be the most socially graceful man on earth, but he can take a fucking hint.

\--

He looks at his and Geno’s text history – the last had been the week before, Geno confirming the time of a video meeting.

“Fucking sack up,” Sid tells himself, staring at his phone. “You’re an adult.”

 _I need to talk to you about something_ , Sid types.

\--

Geno is staring at him, wide-eyed.

“You _what_?” he asks.

Sid maybe hadn’t planned this out very well. He had already made Geno meet him at Sid’s house — there’s no way Sid is having this conversation anywhere other than where he has the upper hand. Now that they’re here, standing on opposite sides of Sid’s kitchen, Sid realises he may have made a miscalculation. He can’t exactly run away from his own home.

Judging by the look on Geno’s face, he knows exactly what Sid’s thinking. Sid forces himself to stop looking towards the exits.

Probably he shouldn’t have sprung this on Geno as soon as he walked into Sid’s kitchen, though. Geno is still wearing his coat and his fancy leather gloves. There are flakes of snow in his eyelashes. Sid looks away.

“I know you understood all the words I said.” Sid has never claimed to be the bigger person.

Geno glares at him. “How long you know?”

Sid scrubs his face with his hands. “I don’t know — a week? Two?”

“Why you not tell me?” Geno asks, voice purposefully even.

Sid glares back. “Why should I have? It’s not exactly like you wanted to talk after we fucked. You’ve barely looked at me in weeks.”

“Don’t change subject,” Geno snaps. “You still should tell me. Is my business.”

“I’m not changing the subject — you asked why I didn’t tell you, and I answered you.” God, Geno can be frustrating sometimes. It’s not as though Sid was never going to tell him — obviously, since he’s telling him now. “And it isn’t as much of your business as you think it is.”

“What that mean?” Geno’s voice finally begins to rise. Good. “Of course is my business! We fuck, you _pregnant_ — ”

Sid interrupts him. “You left! You haven’t talked to me in weeks — you made it clear you didn’t want it to be your business.”

Geno opens his mouth to yell back, closes it. Takes a deep breath, runs his hands through his hair. Sid can see him physically trying to restrain himself. _Good_ , Sid thinks, meanly. _Let him be the bigger person_.

Geno sighs, lowers his hands. “I’m not know what to do. It’s weird situation, need time to think.”

Sid snorts. “Lot of time, it seems like.” He walks to the living room, fussily rearranging the knick-knacks on his bookshelf. He really does own a distressing amount of maritime paraphernalia — he’s calling his decorator tomorrow.

He needs something to do with his hands, and he can’t keep looking at Geno. He doesn’t want Geno looking at him. He moves a replica of Peggy’s Cove three inches to the left, then moves it back.

Geno follows him, leaning against a doorframe. At some point he’d taken off his coat and gloves. “You know what you gonna do?”

Sid sighs, his back still turned towards Geno. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like I have a lot of options. I’m not going to miss another season, not when we’re already playing like shit — “

Geno interrupts him. “Is still early in the season, Sid.”

Sid glares, turning towards Geno. He doesn’t like being interrupted. “Not that early. Anyway — I’m not missing more time. I can have kids when I retire.”

Geno nods slowly, still leaning against the doorframe. There’s no way he’s really that fucking casual. “Okay, and what you need now?”

Sid thinks, crosses his arms in front of his chest, then uncrosses them and stuffs his hands in his back pockets. “I could use a ride tomorrow.”

\--

He spends five hours at the clinic, day of. He’s glad the bye week timing worked out, because this would suck to play through.

Geno’s waiting in another exam room when he’s done. Sid’s glad the clinic was flexible with that – he really doesn’t feel like signing anything right now.

Geno hands him a bag of McDonald’s in the car. It smells like fucking heaven.

Sid wavers. “I can’t eat any of this.” He fucking misses bread.

Geno rolls his eyes. “Is bye week. Can eat a little bit bread, cheese. Won’t kill you.”

Sid hesitates. “I guess just the once is okay.” It does smell really good. He already feels like shit, it can’t really make him feel worse.

Geno rolls his eyes again. Sid is starting to get concerned that he’s going to roll them so hard he’ll pass out on the drive home.

The drive is uneventful. Sid shovels the food into his mouth faster than he thought would be possible, watching Geno bopping along to the top 40 station out of the corner of his eye. When they get to his driveway, Sid climbs out, standing slightly stooped for the cramps.

“Well – thanks for the ride I guess,” Sid says.

Geno looks at him strangely, gets out and walks around to the back of the car. He grabs a reusable grocery bag from the trunk before leading the way up to his front door.

“Okay,” Sid says, nonplussed, following him. “You can come in and hang out I guess.”

Geno gets him settled on the couch and throws a blanket over him. He grabs the remote and puts on some sitcom from the 90s, before heading to the kitchen. Sid can hear him turning on the faucet. He changes the channel to the NHL network.

Geno returns a few minutes later, holding a mug and a red hot water bottle, which he hands to Sid to place against his belly. Once Sid is settled, he pulls a pack of peanut butter M&Ms from his pocket and lobs them directly at Sid’s face.

“Ow — fuck you, what was that for,” Sid says, scowling. Geno just grins. He opens the M&Ms — it’s hard to stay too mad. Geno hands him the mug before settling himself on the other end of the couch. Sid takes a sip. It’s tea, the good Russian stuff that Geno only breaks out for special occasions, and almost never with the North Americans. It’s prepared exactly how Sid likes. He feels warm.

Sid frowns, and places the mug on the coffee table. “G, why are you doing all this?”

Geno looks somewhere to the left of Sid’s head. “Not know what you mean.”

Sid keeps looking. Geno’s cheeks are flushing. “Yes you do. All this, why are you being so nice to me? You haven’t talked to me for weeks.”

Geno glaces at him, before returning his gaze to the wall behind Sid. “You keep saying that, I talk to you lots.”

God, is he being deliberately obtuse? “Yeah, about team stuff. It’s like we’re not even — friends, anymore.”

Geno looks back at Sid, sharply. “Sid. Of course we’re friends. How you think we’re not friends?”

Sid looks away, shrugs. He doesn’t trust himself to speak — there’s a lump lodged in his throat. His eyes feel hot. God, it’s been a shitty day.

Geno stares at him harder — Sid can almost feel his gaze boring into his skull. Sid can’t look at him.

“We’re friends,” Geno says, decisively.

Sid laughs, humorlessly. “Thanks for letting me know.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. He doesn’t know what to say next.

“You welcome,” Geno says, managing to sound magnanimous about it, the fucker.

Sid laughs, looking at him at last. “You’re so full of shit.”

Geno grins, poking his tongue out of his mouth like he does when he thinks he’s being funny. Sid’s chest aches from fondness.

Geno puts a hand on Sid’s knee. “So what game we watching?”

Sid turns towards the TV. Geno’s hand is a warm weight on his leg. He really doesn’t know what he’s doing. “I think I have the Jets game from a couple nights ago recorded.” He knows he does.

“Sounds good,” Geno says.

\--

After the abortion, things get better. Sid isn’t constantly vomiting, which is nice. Geno and he are talking again, which is better.

Sid smiles down at his phone as a Snapchat video of Geno talking to a very small dog in very enthusiastic Russian plays on a loop.

“The fuck are you smiling at?” Tanger asks as he walks into Sid’s kitchen, refilling his wine glass.

“Geno sent me a video of a dog he met,” Sid says, still looking at his phone. He thinks he probably has a stupid grin right now, but he can’t bring himself to tamp it down.

“So you guys aren’t being weird anymore?” Tanger asks. “Or, I guess, you’re back to your regular level of weird? I know someone like you won’t be able to get rid of it entirely.”

Sid glances at Tanger. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tanger snorts. “Sure, Sid.”

\--

Their next day off, Geno asks Sid to come over to his place, ostensibly to hang out. Sid hasn’t been invited to Geno’s since before the start of the season. He should have known something was coming.

Geno orders them both takeout from a sushi place nearby that Sid likes. Geno turns on the Flyers/Caps game, and they watch it while eating on the couch. When they’re done, Geno clears their plates and goes to the kitchen to grab a bottle of red and a couple glasses.

“Who you rooting for?” Geno asks, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

Sid rolls his eyes. He’s so full of shit, and Sid fucking loves him. “I want them both to lose.”

Geno laughs. “No fun Sid, can’t even choose one for tonight?”

Sid grins, shrugs. “I guess we’re competing more with the Flyers for points, so.”

“Ha, should have known,” Geno says. “You find any way you can to root against Flyers.”

Sid snorts. “As if you don’t?” Geno hates the Flyers just as much as Sid does, he knows. Sid doesn’t know where he gets off thinking that isn’t the case.

“Course not,” Geno says. “I’m very reasonable man.”

Sid laughs outright.

The night continues like that, the two of them shooting the shit good-naturedly throughout the rest of regulation and overtime. It’s a good night. Sid has missed this kind of easy camaraderie with Geno. He’s missed the way their conversation flowed, how he never felt like he was running out of things to say. Missed just spending time together, shoulder to shoulder, watching games and exchanging comments about other teams’ power plays or OT strategies. He just — he’s really glad they can get back there, to the normalcy they had before.

The game finishes, and Geno turns off the TV. He turns to Sid on the couch, takes a breath, releases it. “I think maybe we need to talk.”

 _Fuck_ , Sid thinks, _of course it was a trap_. A ploy to get Sid comfortable and loosened up before Geno springs this on him, and now he’s three glasses of wine deep and stuck. Sid decides plays dumb. “Talk about what?”

Geno just looks at him. “What you think, Sid.”

Sid sighs, puts his wine glass on the coffee table. He could maybe leave if he wanted to, he thinks. His car is in the driveway. Sid’s glad Geno asked him over to his place, so Sid at least has that option.

But Sid has never been one to run away from his problems, even if he really, really wants to, and this conversation needs to happen. He turns towards Geno on the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Yeah,” he says, “we should probably talk.”

Geno waits a beat, takes a breath, releases it. “I’m just want to say, I know I’m hurt you. When I leave that morning. I’m wake up, remember what we do, and I’m panic, little bit. You my friend, you very important person to me.”

Sid looks at his knees. “Yeah, I — uh, I understand.”

Geno looks at him. “I’m not think you do.” He takes another breath. “When I leave, I’m scared. I’m think, if I ignore, it not happen. Then, it seem like you ignore too, and I think ‘okay, we’re on same page.’”

And that — kind of stings. When Geno started talking, Sid had hoped — maybe not. “Yeah,” Sid acknowledges, voice hoarse, “I — probably should have said something. I just didn’t — “ want to get turned down, Sid doesn’t say. “I don’t know.”

Geno looks away from him. He looks like he’s going to pass out. “After we not talk for a while, I think I’m miss you. After you say you’re pregnant, after abortion, I — I’m realize I’ve been stupid. Get scared, think I’m not really want what I feel for you. Think if I’m ignore enough, it go away. Stupid.”

There is a lump in Sid’s throat. He tries to choke it down. “You – feel? Things?” His voice is hoarse. He’s going to puke. He’s starting to get concerned about his heart rate.

Geno looks at him. His eyes look misty, his cheeks now flushed. “Sid – of course I feel things.”

“Oh.” Sid is flabbergasted. He thinks this is maybe the happiest he’s ever been off the ice. His heart is attempting to beat its way out of his chest. “I – feel things too.” It’s the easiest admission in the world. Maybe that’s the wine.

Geno smiles at him, and touches their feet together on the couch.

Sid smiles back. He feels warm.

\--

The next morning, Geno cooks Sid breakfast before practice. Sid keeps glancing up and catching Geno looking at him before they both smile and look back at their plates. Their feet are tangled together beneath the table. Sid honestly thinks he’s never been happier.

He wonders whether Geno being the fine master will give Sid immunity from having to pay up for stupid shit, now. He thinks it’s probably more likely that Geno will start making up for neglecting his duties in the last couple months.

Overall, Sid decides, it’s worth it.

“You have stuff for practice?” Geno asks.

Sid takes a sip of his water. “Yeah, I have my gear in my car.”

Geno takes a bite of his toast. “You want ride together?” He chews with his mouth open. Sid can’t believe he loves this man.

Sid smiles. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

\--

Them arriving at practice together goes almost entirely unnoticed.

“So,” Tanger says, sidling up to Sid’s stall as he’s taping his sticks. “I see you and G have gotten your differences resolved.”

Sid keeps focused on his stick. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tanger smiles. “Sure, Sid.”

Across the room, Geno looks over from where he’s fucking around with Horny. Geno winks at him, the fucker. Sid smiles down at his stick, helpless to stop it.

“Yeah,” he tells Tanger. “I think we’re gonna be alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at fuckhockey.tumblr.com - I like friends!


End file.
